Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (26 page)

Orient gently pushed back Presto’s eyelid. The pupil wasn’t dull or clouded. Far from it. Presto’s pale blue eye was gleaming with some kind of private, unseeing ecstasy. It was the only beacon point of life on his body, which seemed drained of energy rather than injured.
 

As Orient looked closer at Presto’s eye, a chill hit him behind the knees and traveled up his spine to the back of his neck, as his consciousness tasted the cloying, sour fume of some excess of alien energy nearby. The presence he had felt with Pia’s call. The same vibration he had detected near Janice’s body.
 

It was all around the bed, a thick sluggish field, hovering over Presto. Orient drew back, resisting the urge to leave the room.
 

Orient had never felt it so keenly before, and he realized that when he had examined Janice’s corpse he had only sensed the remnants of this bitter vitality. The energy here was active, exuding a foul, predatory stench that choked his mind.
 

"As you can see, Doctor, the symptoms are baffling." Doctor Hamid’s clipped voice roused Orient’s external senses, but his awareness of the unseen presence remained.
 

Hamid handed Orient a large manila envelope. While Orient examined the notations and X-rays, Doctor Hamid went to the window and opened it. "There never seems to be enough air in this room," he remarked. He came back and stood next to Orient. "The boy’s blood pressure is very low, but the blood itself is healthy. There were needle punctures but no cuts or scars on his body. There were no drugs found in his system. But as you can see, he remains critical. He’s been fed intravenously but seems to be losing vitality every day."
 

Orient handed the file back to Hamid. "I’d like to see the punctures," he said.
 

Hamid showed him a mark on Presto’s left shoulder and two in the upper forearm. They were somewhat older than the marks made by the intravenous feeding. They could have been caused by vaccinations, vitamin injections, or drugs.
 

Orient lifted Presto’s eyelid, revealing the blue eye shining with silent intensity. "The clearness of the pupil might be from an over-activity of the thyroid or pituitary glands," Orient suggested.
 

Hamid looked at Presto’s face. "Perhaps," he said slowly. "But what could cause that kind of stimulation?"
 

"A sharp increase or decrease in fluid," Orient said, letting the eyelid drop.
 

Hamid nodded absently. "Of course it wouldn’t harm to run some more tests."

 
"Aside from that," Orient said, "I have no idea what Mr. Wallace could be suffering from. You say that his blood count is normal?"

 
"Quite. He might be unable to manufacture enough blood, however."
 

"That might account for a gland deficiency."
 

Hamid took a pad and pencil from the pocket of his smock and wrote something down. "Thank you, Doctor Orient. I’ll check the possibility of a gland malfunction right away." He looked up. "Anything else you wish to know?"
 

"No. Not right now. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on his progress."
 

"Very good." Doctor Hamid smiled broadly and pumped Orient’s hand. "I’m pleased to have been given the benefit of your excellent advice."
 

Orient inclined his head slightly. "The excellence of my advice could only be a reflection of your own conclusions, Doctor Hamid. I thank you for your courtesy." He took the stethoscope from around his neck and handed it back.
 

Hamid took Orient’s arm and walked with him to the stairway. "Our tests should take a few days to complete, Doctor."
 

Orient fell silent, his mind still fogged by the reeking presence behind him in Presto’s room. He shook hands with Doctor Hamid again and walked slowly down the stairs.
 

The sun was still high outside and, when Orient reached the sidewalk, his ears picked up the steady thudding of the drums in the square. He suddenly felt very tired from his journey.
 

As he looked for one of the horse-drawn cabs, Orient saw a boy coming across the street toward him. He braced himself for a quick refusal of whatever the boy was selling. He had been strangely shaken by what he had sensed near Presto, and was too weary to barter.
 

"You are the doctor," the boy announced in English, his smile displaying a wide gap left by three missing teeth. He was about nine years old.
 

"
Imshee
," Orient said regretfully in Arabic, "go away." He was unfazed by the fact that the boy knew he was a doctor. He knew that in city streets or desert marketplaces gossip is communicated faster by word of mouth than by radio.
 

"You come, sir," the boy said, his smile becoming an injured frown. "I have send to find." He ran alongside Orient, who hadn’t slackened his pace. "You come with me."
 

"Be respectful of your elders," Orient said in Arabic. "Go away and let men work."
 

The boy ran a few steps ahead of Orient and blocked his path, holding up his hand like a traffic policeman. "Please, sir," he said firmly, "listen."
 

Orient stopped and reached into his pocket.
 

"I want no money, sir," the boy said sharply.
 

Orient stopped and looked at him.
 

The boy was glaring at Orient, his eyes moist with a mixture of anger and shame. "I am Yousef. You save money for marketplace."
 

The boy was wearing a pale blue robe of some thick brocaded material. There was a pair of dark blue velvet slippers on his feet. He didn’t look like one of the ragged urchins who constantly offered tourists their services.
 

"What is it then?" Orient asked quietly, resting his hands on his knees and crouching down to head level with the boy.

 
"I am Yousef," the boy repeated. "Ahmehmet has sent me." His face was set, almost defiant.
 

"And who is Ahmehmet?" Orient asked, smiling.
 

The boy’s face relaxed. "He is my teacher," he said proudly.
 

"What does he want with me?"
 

"He does not say these things to me," Yousef murmured. "He told me find the English doctor who comes today. You come, please," the boy nodded, his face earnest and pleading.
 

Orient straightened up and looked down at him. "Okay," he signed, "I’ll come with you, Yousef. But if this is a child’s game, I shall be very angry."
 

The boy didn’t answer. He spun around and began walking quickly toward the center of the teeming square, turning around every few steps to make sure Orient was following.
 

As Orient ambled after him, he wasn’t sure why he had decided that this wasn’t another version of Trick the Tourist, a game which the Moroccan boys never tired of; motivated as much by a high-spirited sense of humor as an eye for profit.
 

But there was something in the boy’s carriage and manner that suggested a proud, truthful boy engaged in a serious occupation.
 

Yousef kept five steps ahead of Orient, weaving through the noisy knots of people in the square until he reached a small passageway between two of the hundreds of wooden stalls that bordered the square. He waited impatiently for Orient to catch up, then started ahead of him again, walking along a crowded, caked dirt path that ran between long rows of open tents that displayed everything from spare bicycle parts to dried frogs. Before they reached the end of the tented area Yousef ducked down a side path into the entrance of a wide tunnel.
 

The tunnel was another kind of marketplace. It was long and covered with slats and sheets of corrugated metal that let the sunlight trickle through thousands of cracks in the makeshift ceiling. This dim market was also filled with people walking back and forth between two solid rows of stalls that sold a wide variety of goods.
 

Orient had noticed earlier that there were very few European tourists in Marrakesh, in comparison with Tangier. And in this tunnel market there were no tourists at all. The people were all traditionally dressed in tribal robes and silk gowns. There were no traces of Western clothing except his own.
 

For a while longer, Orient followed the boy through what he discovered was a labyrinth of connecting tunnels all going deeper and farther away from the light. He began to have misgivings about following Yousef so far. No one knew where he was, including himself. If he had to find his way out of this maze in a hurry, it would be impossible. He was absolutely defenseless against a fast mugging or worse. His mind jumped back to the oozing presence in Presto’s room. Yousef turned another corner.
 

As they continued to walk, the crowds began to diminish but not completely, so that Orient was constantly dodging bicycles, wheelbarrows, and livestock as he picked his way through the people shuffling through the narrowing walkways, trying to keep pace with the boy ahead. Finally Yousef stopped in front of a shop displaying antique jewelry and artifacts, pulled the beaded curtains aside, and waited for Orient to enter.
 

Orient stepped inside a large room covered with rugs and furnished with plump brocaded pillows placed around the floor. There was a desk at the far end of the room on which rested an ornate gilt cash register. Next to the register was a vase filled with bright flowers.
 

"Welcome," a voice said in English from behind the desk. "You have journeyed long to reach us."
 

Orient’s mind froze. He saw a short man with curly, orange-hennaed hair stand up behind the desk. He was so small that he had been hidden by the flowers.
 

Orient immediately sensed that he knew the small man from somewhere. And he knew definitely where he had heard the man’s greeting before. The words were the traditional salutation between neophyte and teacher. He had heard them once before in Tibet.
 

"The journey is like the flow of water," Orient answered, using the formal reply to the greeting.
 

The man walked toward him smiling. He was wearing a green silk ruffled shirt and bell-bottom trousers made of multicolored velvet patches.
 

"And water finds the thirsty man." The man finished the ritual greeting as he neared Orient. He bowed his head. "My home is yours, you are my favored guest."
 

"I think there may be some mistake," Orient said unevenly.
 

"There is no mistake," the man said gently. He turned to Yousef, who was standing near the beaded curtain. "Attend to your work," he said softly. The boy melted back through the curtain almost before he had finished speaking.
 

The man turned back to Orient. "If you think there is a mistake, then we must be sure," he said in careful English that contained a trace of French accent. The smile remained on his dark, creased face. He was very thin with prominent corded muscles in his neck, face, and wrists. His hands were tattooed, scarred, and callused. His smile wasn’t vacant, but seemed to be trying to hold back some deeper enthusiasm that was radiating from him. A torrent of joy that was pouring out through his large brown eyes.
 

It was that vibration of joy that calmed Orient’s thinking. He readied himself for the questioning that would be the next phase of greeting according to the ancient ceremony.
 

"Have you been traveling long?" the man asked. Orient wavered. He didn’t recall the question as part of the recognition ceremony. The man grunted and the smile was suddenly gone, replaced by an expression of mournful concern. "Come," he said finally, patting Orient’s arm. "You shall have tea with me." He moved toward the curtained doorway next to the desk.
 

Orient hesitated, then followed, his brain churning thoughts and sending up a spray of questions. Who was this shopkeeper and why had he sent for him? Why did he use the traditional greeting of the Serene Knowledge? Orient’s initiation was years in the past, but he had learned on that mountaintop that the path was a series of steps carved out by the winds of fate. He stopped at the threshold, removed his shoes, and went inside.
 

The floor of the inner room was also covered with thick rugs and the walls were draped with silken fabrics, embroidered with asymmetrical designs in gleaming metallic colors. As the fabrics moved, the colors rippled in the fight from the oil lamps standing on the floor near the large pillows which served as furniture. As they entered, a woman wearing a long yellow silk caftan and dark blue veil hurried out of the room.
 

Orient saw that a low table had been prepared between two of the pillows, next to one of the floor lamps. He eased himself down on a pillow and found it very comfortable.
 

The man poured two glasses of tea from a silver pot and sat down.
 

"I am Ahmehmet," he said, smiling.
 

"Why have you sent for me?" Orient asked.
 

Ahmehmet stroked his chin. "Perhaps I have been mistaken."
 

"The journey is strewn with illusions," Orient said as the half-forgotten words came rushing back into his mind.
 

"That is true." Ahmehmet picked up his glass and sipped some tea. "Then the journey will take a long time to complete."
 

Orient felt a sudden surge as Ahmehmet once more responded correctly. He looked around the room and realized that the brocaded symbols on the walls were occult designs taken from the Kaballa, the texts of early Semitic magic. The secret books of Moses. "The journey will complete itself in time," he said softly.

  
Ahmehmet’s eyes suddenly sharpened as he peered past the light and scrutinized Orient’s face. "Tell me," he said, studying Orient’s reaction closely, "do you know the name of the card that sent you here?"